


As long as I'm breathing

by IceImagines



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, angst angst angst, i don't think it's actually that bad, kind of a bittersweet ending if you know what comes next, logan knows what's going on, lots of guilt and regret, my recollection of 2009 x-force is sketchy and i assume no liability for continuity mistakes, no plot to be found anywhere, nobody ever gets over each other especially not these two idiots, nothing smutty about this it's all feelings and crying, rating is a precaution, references to body horror and extreme violence, some strong language, very brief suicide mention, warren has a lot of emotions™, why did i even write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 23:28:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10627410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceImagines/pseuds/IceImagines
Summary: It's been two years since Betsy's death, and maybe most people would be over it by now. But Warren isn't like most people. He's never handled it well, not the breakup, not receiving word that she'd been killed on a mission, and especially not the resurrection. They haven't talked since she came back, avoided each other like the plague for a whole year. But now, Archangel has resurfaced in Warren's mind. And Betsy, as much as he hates to admit it, might just be the only one who can help him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was probably one of my stranger ideas, and it's not even so much the weirdness of the situation itself as the mere fact that I really didn't need to set this fic in an alternate timeline to make the conversation that is the central focus happen. Maybe I just wanted to write Warren bitching at Logan. I truly have no idea where the urge to write this came from or why this, of all the things I should be working on, was the one work I've managed to finish in the past several months.  
> But if there are any Betsy/Warren shippers left out there, this may be able to get a little smile out of them, and that's enough for me.
> 
> Enjoy!

Warren‘s facial expression when Logan informed him of just what his plan for helping him control Archangel was could best be described as a mixture of horror, fury, fear, and a clear underlying trace of conflicting elation that he was trying very hard to hide (and failed miserably). 

„Are you serious?“, he snapped at Logan. 

X-Force‘s leader stared at him with a blank expression. „I‘m absolutely fucking‘ serious, birdbrain.“

Warren massaged his temples in exasperation. „All this time we‘ve been working together, everything you saw me do when Archangel was in control... knowing what a serious problem he poses... and the best solution to this mess you can come up with is calling my ex-girlfriend to help me control my temper tantrums?“

„She‘s not coming here as your ex-girlfriend, Worthington“, Logan growled. „She‘s comin‘ as the best telepath the X-Men have right now, apart from Frost. And you know Scott wants to keep her out of this.“ He paused briefly. „You need help, Warren, whether you like it or not. And Psylocke can help you.“

„Shit, as if I don‘t know that, Logan!“ Warren turned away abruptly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He started pacing in front of the large window that made up most of the east side of the aerie. „I‘m the one you found lying on top of a pile of slashed up Purifier corpses after I‘d murdered them all in cold blood, wasn‘t I?“

„Then what‘s your fewkin‘ problem?“

„It‘s just that... that... Warren let out a puff of air audibly. „I haven‘t seen her in two years. Not since she...“ His voice trailed off. Logan understood nonetheless.

„Not since she died“, he said matter-of-factly. 

Warren nodded, not looking at him.

„It‘s been a year since she came back.“ Suddenly, Logan‘s voice was a lot quieter. 

„I know.“ All anger had vanished from Warren‘s words. Now, he just sounded shaky and a little anxious. „I know... it should have been enough time for me to get used to it. Especially after Jean... the Professor... death is not something that seems to stick with people like us. But still...“ He exhaled sharply. „I don‘t think I‘m ready for this, Logan.“

Logan raised his eyebrows. „You‘re an X-Man, goldenrod. And you have the Angel of Death implanted in your mind as a dual personality. You think you can‘t handle one ex-girlfriend?“

„She‘s not just any ex-girlfriend“, Warren said sharply. „You know that, Logan, probably better than most people.“

He did know. And when Logan was honest with himself, he wasn‘t sure either whether this was a good idea, but they were out of options. Warren desperately needed help, from a telepath. A very good, very experienced telepath. And there weren‘t too many of these running around these days, especially not ones they could trust with a secret like X-Force. Scott wanted to keep the whole thing secret from Emma - probably not a wise decision, but it wasn‘t Logan‘s job to hand out relationship advice. If Emma couldn‘t know, the Cuckoos couldn‘t know. God knew where Rachel Summers was running around these days, Jean was dead, the Professor wasn‘t with the X-Men and he should‘ve been the last person to find out about X-Force anyway. Betsy was the best option they had. She and Logan had always been very close, and he knew he could trust her with this secret. If she hadn‘t been with the dimension-hopping Exiles until very recently, he would‘ve considered her for the team from the start - something about her had been off ever since her resurrection. God knew the girl could have used the anger management therapy that a hit squad like X-Force offered. She‘d gotten her telepathy back only recently, but before she had lost it prior to her death, she had been one of the best psychics Logan had ever known, not only very powerful, but also fearless and supremely skilled. If she couldn‘t help Warren, nobody could.

Granted, the personal history the two of them shared wasn‘t ideal... not under these circumstances. There was too much bad blood, too much loss, too much pain, too much lingering bitterness. And maybe, when Logan looked at Warren, staring out the window with his brow furrowed, his hands twisting nervously behind his back... too much hope. 

The kind of emotional attachment, the entanglement that the reunion of the two would almost inevitably bring with it was exactly the kind that would pose a dangerous hazard to this team. But the danger if they left Archangel unrestrained was greater. Logan had seen what that monster could do when unleashed. They had no choice but to take the risk that was the downside to Betsy‘s assistance. It was worth it.

It had to be.

~~~~~~~~~

The hands on the clock were moving towards midnight when Betsy arrived at the aerie two days later. James and Laura were sleeping, Logan was probably still up on one of the lower floors, like he was most nights. Warren was awake, too. He‘d tried to sleep once or twice during the last several hours, always unsuccessfully. The thought of Betsy kept him awake. After all this time, her face was still burned into his mind with every detail and he saw it in front of him every time he closed his eyes. Sometimes, he could have sworn he could feel the silky strands of her deep violet hair running through his hands, or smell her skin with its lingering traces of her favorite perfume that always seemed to stick, even after hours of battle, blood, sweat and tears. 

Warren had thought of her every day during the last two years. He‘d gotten used to it, like it was some kind of routine that he kept up to keep himself from going insane some days. But now, the thought of her seemed to have taken over his entire mind. He was hardly able to think of anything but her eyes, purple like her hair, of her voice whispering in his ear, her fingertips ghosting over his skin like they‘d used to. How was it possible that he felt like no time had passed at all since he‘d last seen her, and at the same time a million years? 

He ached for her, he realized now, with every fiber of his being. His mind, body and soul. Ached for her like he was dying of an inexplicable illness and she was the only cure.  
She was, he reminded himself. A cure for his broken, twisted, warped mind. That was why she was coming here. Not to save him, but to save everyone else from him. It was better this way. He knew it. 

But his heart still pounded in his chest like it hadn‘t in years while he lay awake on top of the sheets on his overly wide bed, the space necessary for his wings. His wings... the treacherous angel wings, now white and feathered once again, but he knew what was beneath the facade of beauty and tranquility. He saw the gleaming metal every time he looked at them, just like he saw his skin turn Archangel‘s deep cerulean blue when he looked in the mirror. 

How, oh how had any of this come to pass? What was that ugly, twisted sickness that he felt growing inside of him every day since Rahne had torn off his wings and Apocalypse‘s Angel of Death had resurfaced?  
Could Betsy help him?

_(Oh, of course it was her, it had always been her from the first time he‘d laid eyes on her. Her glance had caught his and held it there and he‘d been a doomed man, and he‘d only loved her more for it.)_

The door creaked, so quietly anyone but Warren never would‘ve heard it. He froze, his breath catching in his throat for a moment. There were soft footsteps on the wooden floor, nearing the bed in the center of the room slowly. He didn‘t move, kept lying there with his back towards the door. She was purposefully making him aware of her presence, otherwise he never would‘ve heard a sound from her until she was already right behind him. Maybe not even then.

She had to have almost reached the bed, barely a few meters away from Warren. He could hear her breathing in the nightly quiet of the room. 

„Warren?“ She spoke his name softly, each syllable pronounced ever-so-carefully, like they were made of glass and broken with ease. God, oh god, her voice still sounded exactly the same. It still had that slight, barely audible rasp to it, just a small undertone beneath the velvety softness. She hadn't lost her accent, he could tell that even from just the single word. He'd always loved the way she spoke his name, the way she drew out the vowels and softened the double consonant, how she made it sound like something noble and beautiful instead of hard and brutish as he'd always thought. 

"Are you awake?", he heard her inquire softly, even though he knew she didn't really need to ask. Pretending to be asleep would be of no use. 

Slowly, he shifted, rolling over onto his back and pushing himself up into a sitting position. The room was mostly dark except for the light of a single lamp on the nightstand and that of the half-moon and the stars that was shining in through the large window front. But it was more than enough for Warren. 

Betsy was standing at the foot of his bed, her dark eyes locked onto him. She was more beautiful than Warren remembered and he hadn't thought that was a possibility. Her light golden skin seemed to glow slightly in the faint silver light, and her face was even and unmarred by the blood red dagger that had been etched into her skin above her eye the last time Warren had seen her. The mark of the Crimson Dawn had taken with it the coldness from Betsy's gaze, he realized as soon as he returned it, slightly hesitantly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her look this at peace, this secure and comfortable with herself and her surroundings. Her stance was relaxed, wholly non-threatening. No more stiffness in her limbs, no more of the aggression, the anticipation for a fight that had been present every time Warren had looked at her. Suddenly, all of that seemed to be lightyears away, an eternity ago. Like it had happened in another life. 

Warren caught his glance following the smooth curve of her slender neck, exposed by her hair, which she had swept almost entirely over one shoulder. She was covered from the collarbone upwards by her sleeveless thin woolen top, but the fabric was cut close to her skin, following every curve of her body perfectly. The tight dark jeans she was wearing revealed that her legs were as toned and strong as ever, and Warren couldn't help but wonder if the same went for her stomach, her back, if the muscles were still tangible just beneath her skin, if her battle scars still stretched across them like they had back then, marking her as the survivor, the warrior, that she was. 

Warren's hands ached to reach for her, pull her to him and hold her again. But he knew he'd lost that right long ago. So he linked his fingers with each other, remained where he was, and collected himself. 

"Hello, Betsy." He tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible. If he failed, she didn't let him know it. "Long time no see."

Something like a trace of a smile tugged at the edge of her lips. "You could say that, I suppose." She gestured lightly at the edge of the bed, the question in her eyes obvious. 

Warren nodded, perhaps slightly too quickly. "Oh course... sit down, if you want to."

She settled down on the soft mattress gracefully, her gaze never leaving Warren's, though she made no attempt to move closer. He didn't know whether he was thankful or resented her for it. 

"When Logan first called me and told me you had a problem," she began carefully, "I didn't quite imagine that problem being something as... grave as Archangel resurfacing."

Warren snorted quietly. "I don't think any of us imagined something like this happening when we started this crazy outfit."

Betsy raised one elegant eyebrow. "What did you imagine? Just being curious. It's not every day that one decides to found a secret assassination squad and take on the entirety of the Purifiers on one's own."

The sarcastic undertone didn't go past Warren. It was evident that Betsy felt betrayed by Logan for keeping X-Force a secret from her to no small degree, and Warren couldn't exactly blame her. 

"Honestly? I have no idea. I wasn't part of the team from the start, you know." His wings shifted slightly, as they so often did when he was uncomfortable, the feathers rustling. "I just gave them permission to use the aerie as a makeshift base of operations until they could find something better. What use would they have had for me, anyways? Except for my money, I'm not worth much as an assassin."

Now the other eyebrow went up too. "Is that bitterness I detect in your voice, Warren?" She was teasing him. Almost the exact same way she'd used to all that time ago. "Don't tell me you missed being the blade-winged Angel of Death when you thought you'd lost those abilities forever."

He decided to play along, at least for the moment. "Now don't tell me you forgot how I used to complain about the metal wings. I'd be led to believe it didn't bother you, and who knows what ideas I might get from that." 

She didn't react to that the way he'd anticipated. The teasing had completely vanished from her voice when she responded. "You know that never bothered me, Warren." She sounded dead serious and that startled him more than any spontaneous outbursts of anger could have. "Not with everything you had to endure with me and my body dysmorphia and depression and suicidal impulses. That we were going to put up with each other's issues was always part of the deal. And that went both ways." A hint of passion had made its way into her voice that hadn't been there before. "Please tell me you know that, Warren."

He stared at her, more than a little incredulously. She sounded and looked like she felt... guilty. Though he wasn't exactly sure what for. "Sure,“ he said hesitantly. "I know... but..." He paused, collected himself, took a deep breath. "... that's not what you're here to talk to me about, is it?"

They stared at each other in silence for several moments that felt like eternity. The uncertainty in Betsy's eyes mirrored that in Warren's own. He felt like an invisible being was wrapping its fingers around his heart and squeezing, just enough for his breath to speed up ever-so-slightly, just enough for the blood in his veins to heat up, the burn inside him slow and painful and... strangely _delicious_ at the same time.

Betsy cleared her throat. "I... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I suppose I should've waited until tomorrow altogether until I came up here." She started sliding off the bed, and suddenly an inexplicable urge of something almost like panic gripped Warren's heart. 

"No! Please don't go." He reached for her without thinking. His fingers brushed over her wrist, not nearly enough to actually hold her in place. Yet, they froze for a moment, both holding their breath. Warren half anticipated her jumping on him or punching him, definitely at least a slap. Betsy had always hated being touched without her permission, and especially when she didn't anticipate it. 

She did none of the kind. Instead, she turned her head, slowly, very slowly, until her eyes met his again, and moved her hand underneath his. He could've sworn that her fingers were trembling slightly when she linked them with his, very carefully, almost shyly. 

"Alright." It was barely more than a whisper. "If you're sure you want me here right now... we can start talking the whole thing over now." 

"I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway." He smiled, the crooked half-smile that had used to make her heart skip a beat, as she'd sworn more than once. He wondered if it still did. 

"Well, that makes two of us." She kicked off her boots, not caring much where they landed. This time, she scooted closer to Warren on the bed. A lot closer. Enough so for him to notice that she still wore the same perfume, although he couldn't remember its name. The scent brought back memories, a lot of memories that would have been pleasant at any other time. But now, they distracted him and made him unable to focus on anything but Betsy, now directly in front of him, suddenly so close. God. How could anyone be so beautiful?

She raised a tentative hand to his face, her fingers brushing his cheek lightly. "Now tell me... how did any of this happen?"

And so he told her.  
He told her everything that had transpired since X-Force‘s founding, how Rahne had been held hostage and badly injured on the team‘s first mission, how they‘d brought her back to the aerie and barely managed to save her from an apparently unintentional heroin overdose with Elixir‘s aid.  
How she‘d woken up, laid eyes on Warren and immediately gone berserk, attacked him and brutally torn off his wings before anyone was able to stop her.  
How she‘d vanished with the wings and Elixir hadn‘t been able to regrow them from Warren‘s back, because, as it turned out, they‘d been made of the same techno-organic material as Archangel‘s razor-sharp wings all along, even while appearing white and feathered like the ones Warren had been born with. 

And then, how he‘d woken up the following night, screaming in pain from the skin on his back that was being torn open by the metal wings suddenly regrowing. How his skin had turned blue and his fingers morphed into claws and the suit Apocalypse had outfitted him with all that time ago had reappeared, in black and silver and soon to be spotted and muddled by the blood of the Purifiers he'd murder over the course of the night.

Warren's voice halted when he reached that point of the story. It was still painful to think about the carnage he'd committed that day, still made him feel like a monster every time. He preferred not to talk about it, and the rest of X-Force seemed to share that sentiment. The less they mentioned it, the better. But that wasn't going to work with Betsy.

She continued to look at him, her expression open and completely non-judgemental. She didn't say a word, didn't push or press him. Betsy, Warren realized, probably understood what he was going through better than almost anyone. She'd had to come to terms with very similar things after her body swap, when suddenly the weight of over more than forty people that she'd killed as Lady Mandarin rested with her. 

They'd been through this back then, only their roles had been switched. Warren could trust her with this, more than anyone. He knew that.

He took a deep breath. "I... Archangel flew away from the aerie and straight to the Purifier's base. It was like the wings were still calling to me. Like they were begging me to come and get them back. Somehow I could... sense their location instinctively. It was all my mind was focused on, there was no room left for anything else." He ran a hand through his hair distractedly. His voice had become very quiet. "When I arrived at the base, I found an army of Purifiers, all outfitted with artificial metal wings like my own."

"They regrew Archangel's wings?", Betsy asked incredulously. "How?"

Warren shook his head, helpless. "I have no idea. I wish I did. But all I knew at the time was that they were in my way, and they were making me angry... or maybe they were making _him_ angry. I don't know." He shuddered at the memory. "It doesn't matter. Either way... when the others finally arrived at the base, I had completely slaughtered almost all of these Purifiers. Simply cut every one of them to pieces. Mercilessly. None of them had a chance."

"Not even with the wings?"

He shook his head. "They changed nothing. It was like they were sheep and I was a wolf. A terrible, bloodthirsty wolf."

"Did any of them survive?" There was still no judgement in Betsy's voice, no accusation of any kind. Warren couldn't help but marvel at it. How could she be so accepting of him, even after everything he'd just told her? 

After everything that had happened between them?

"No." Warren's voice was barely audible. Betsy nodded, but said nothing. For a few seconds, both of them were completely quiet. It was not an uncomfortable, but unquestionably tense silence, although Warren remained unsure about just what kind of tension it really was.

Betsy was still sitting right in front of him. Her knee almost touched his, and Warren couldn't help but wonder if it was deliberate. 

"And since then?", came her voice finally, softly. "How often have you been reverting to Archangel's form?"

"Too often." He gave a bleak smile. "Like I said, I'm pretty much useless without it. And having the Angel of Death on your secret hit squad is to valuable for Logan to just let me leave. Not to mention that I have a feeling that if I just kept suppressing Archangel and never let him out, I'd go insane from it sooner or later."

"You can feel his influence in your mind even when you're dominant?"

"It depends", Warren answered honestly. "Sometimes more, sometimes less. But he's always there somewhere in the back of my mind, lurking... waiting. He wants control of the body, you know. He'd take it over for good if I let him."

Betsy frowned worriedly and bit her lower lip as she pondered what he'd just told her. "So it's not like it was before your feather wings grew back."

"No. Not at all. Back then, Archangel and me were one. Not two separate personas both trying to dominate the same body." He stopped, was quiet for a few moments, opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again. How was he supposed to phrase what he was thinking about without coming off as entitled and arrogant?

"You... you remember what my mind felt like, right?", he asked, slowly. A small, rueful smile tugged at the edged of Betsy's mouth.

"I'll always remember what your mind feels like, Warren. I'd recognize it among a thousand others."  
She tried to make it sound sober, like all she did was speak of facts. But Warren knew her too well to buy into it. The quiet longing, the lingering bitterness and guilt underneath the facade was all but evident to him. 

_Do you feel the same as I do, Elizabeth? Do your hands long to touch me as mine do you?_ She was so close, and at the same time so far away. She'd been gone for so long. He'd missed her, missed her so much it had almost torn him apart.

"Take a look inside." He heard his own voice like it was its own disembodied entity and not truly a part of him. "I think you'll see what I mean."

She looked surprised for a few heartbeats, and then almost insecure. He wasn't used to seeing her like this. She'd always been so strong, so confident...

Except on those nights when she woke up from another nightmare, shuddering and drenched in sweat, eyes wide in fear of the phantoms that kept haunting her mind and her quiet sobs the only noise in the silence of the night. He'd held her then, as closely as possible, and she'd seemed to almost disappear in his arms, suddenly so fragile, so vulnerable. She'd clung to him like her life depended on it, and when she'd finally calmed down a little she'd tugged him back down onto the mattress with her, curling into his side and whispering into his ear again and again how much she loved him. 

It seemed like all of that had been forever ago. But suddenly Betsy's eyes looked like they had back then once again, the tenderness behind the steel that she hardly let show suddenly visible all too clearly. 

"Are... are you sure? It's been a long time... and we're not like we were before. I... I don't want to hurt you." Never, never as long as I‘m breathing. He remembered how she'd promised him that, once.

He didn't speak. There was nothing he could have said without ruining everything. He just took her hands in his own trembling ones and guided them to his temples, carefully, slowly, never breaking her gaze. She followed him in his movements, her thumb softly stroking his cheek. There was something almost like awe in her eyes. 

"Alright," she whispered. "Close your eyes, and relax, love."

He did as he was told. He wasn't afraid. They'd done this so many times, he'd long since stopped counting. It was almost as familiar as breathing, and when Betsy's mind touched his, there was no pain. Only warmth, and comfort, old familiar bliss blooming inside his mind at the contact. Betsy's mental touch was like a favorite sweater, nothing adverse or threatening at all to it. She filled him with calm and took away the fear and the cold, just like she had so many times during all the time they'd been together. Warren watched in awe as she began to soothe the crashing waves of Archangel's influence on his mind, drove back the darkness from the edges of his thoughts, smoothed out the makeshift stitches he'd awkwardly made to hold the broken parts of his psyche together, eased his pain, the lingering old aches as well as the new wounds that Archangel caused whenever he took him over. 

Slowly, the agony started to subside. A part of him hadn‘t even noticed it was there until now, when he was finally free of it. He‘d been used to it, much too used to it.

Something like a psychic moan of gratitude escaped him. _Thank you... oh god, thank you._ He wasn't sure if he'd spoken aloud, but he knew Betsy had heard him anyway. 

He could've sworn he felt her shudder. _You're welcome._

_That was amazing, Betsy._

_Your psyche was on the verge of fracturing in some spots._ She sounded worried, even here on the astral plane. _It's worse than I anticipated._

 _You're afraid._ It was not a question. She didn't protest. 

_I am._

_Of him?_

_No. For you._

She drew back from his mind, and a terrible sense of loss overcame him. For a moment, it was like losing her all over again. She couldn't have spent more than a few seconds inside his mind, at least in real time, but for those few seconds, everything had felt like nothing had changed since the last time they'd been together. The connection they'd had had immediately reappeared without either of them having to urge it. The feeling of their minds conjoined, twirled into each other, to the point where it was impossible to distinguish where one ended and the other began... Warren had never realized how much he'd missed that. All she'd given him was a taste of what he'd lost the day she had left. And already he felt like he needed more of that, as desperately as he needed the air in his lungs. 

When he opened his eyes, he found that she had inched even closer to him, now kneeling in front of him on the white bedsheets, her fingers still gently pressed to his temples. Her face was mere inches from his, and in her eyes he saw the same pain he felt in his chest. 

The words left his lips without his control.  
"You were gone... you were gone and I couldn't take it. I thought I was going to die, Betsy, or maybe I was already dead and just too stupid to realize it." He spoke softly, his voice strained with raw emotion. "I hated myself for the things I had said to you. I still do. There hasn't been one day I didn't wish I could go back and change everything." His eyes were burning. Was he starting to cry? He couldn't even bring himself to care. "I- I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Betsy." It was all he managed to get out.

He expected her to push him away. She didn't. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him to her, and this time he was the one who clung to her like he was drowning and she was his life vest. Tears were running down his cheeks as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. He didn't care. She still smelled exactly the same, like not one day had passed since he'd held her for the last time. 

"Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me." He kept whispering it against her neck, like it was a prayer and he'd committed a mortal sin. Her hands tangled in his hair, and he felt her press a kiss to the side of his head.

"There's nothing to forgive. Nothing that happened to me was your fault."

"The Crimson Dawn... I saw what it was doing to you, and I... I left, I abandoned you instead of helping you."

He felt her shake her head. "There was nothing you could do. Nothing could have changed my fate. I was lost from the moment that the Dawn‘s mark appeared on my face."

"I brought that curse upon you."

 _All you ever did was try to save me._ She whispered it inside his mind, and again her mental touch spread warmth through him, body and soul. So comforting. So familiar. 

_I thought I'd lost you forever._ He couldn't bring himself to speak the words aloud. _You- you were dead, Betsy. I went to your funeral. I saw you lying inside that coffin and I- I-_

_Shh. It's alright. I'm here._

_He killed you. Vargas. Arranged you in Hank's arms like a pieta._

_I know._

_I wanted to kill him. I wanted to avenge you. More than anything._

_I'm glad you didn't._ She drew back a little, just enough so she could look him in the eyes, take his head between her hands, lean her forehead against his. _His death wouldn't have brought you peace, Warren. Only more pain._

_It would have been worth it._

She closed her eyes for a moment. _I'm sorry you suffered so. I never wanted any of this. Ever since I came back... I keep wishing I hadn't treated you like that. You didn't deserve it. You only tried to help me, and I simply cast you off to the side._ Her mental voice halted. _What we had... it was good. It was probably the best thing that had ever happened to me. And I just... broke it apart. Like it was nothing._

"No." He spoke the word aloud, almost carefully, quietly, but his voice didn't waver. "It was my fault as much as it was yours. I don't know what had gotten into me, what possessed me to act the way I did. I kept comparing us to Jean and Scott..." He huffed a little. "I was such an idiot. Look at where Jean and Scott are now."

Betsy's laugh was the most beautiful thing Warren had ever heard in his life. How he'd missed it. "At least you didn't sleep with Emma Frost when I was dead."

"Only with Paige Guthrie."

"Yes, I hope you're ashamed of yourself for that."

This time they both laughed. Warren couldn't remember the last time anything had made him feel this whole. The feeling of Betsy in his arms was enough to make him forget the pain and the fear that seemed to have consumed his life over the course of the past weeks. He knew how foolish it was, but it didn't matter. Not right now. Betsy was everything important. 

"I missed you so much", he whispered, eyes closed, forehead still against hers. 

"I missed you too."

"Promise me you'll stay. At least for a little while."

She closed the gap between them without saying a word. Her lips were pressed against Warren's for mere seconds, and still he felt his heart throbbing against his ribs, too hard, almost painfully. Time stood still for no more than a fraction of a second. It wasn't enough. He'd never have enough of her.

"You're not getting rid of me that easily this time", she murmured against his lips. 

He slowly laid back down onto the mattress, and Betsy followed him. She curled into his side, just like she'd used to years ago, and rested her head on his shoulder, and for a long time, neither of them spoke a word. The silence didn't seem crushing for the first time in what seemed like forever. Warren was content just listening to Betsy breathing, watching her ribcage rise and sink in an slow, consistent rhythm. It was strangely soothing. 

When Betsy finally spoke, her voice inside Warren's mind was soft, careful not to break the spell of the moment. _I promise I'll do everything I can to help you. I know you can learn to control him._ She didn't need to say his name for Warren to know who she was referring to. _You've been through this before. You can do it again._

_As long as you're with me._

_I will be. Until the very end._

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for slightly strange formatting, I'm new to the way that's handled on this site and I'm not actually used to making so many paragraphs, so, sorry if it looks weird at times.
> 
> If anyone still wants anything to do with me after reading this, I'm icewuerfelchen on tumblr. I'm always happy to talk about the X-Men and especially these dorks, so come at me, folks!


End file.
